


villa drive avenue

by OpheliaMarina



Category: Scream (TV)
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Halloween, Original Character(s), Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 03:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpheliaMarina/pseuds/OpheliaMarina
Summary: In the three years since the Jensens moved into the modest cottage at the end of Summer Street, the rest of the neighbors have seen them three, maybe four times. There’s a BEWARE OF DOG sign thrown sloppily over the side of the fence, even though no one’s ever seen a dog, and a padlock the size of a fist hanging stoutly from their front door. They’re not friendly people. They might also be ghosts.





	villa drive avenue

In the three years since the Jensens moved into the modest cottage at the end of Summer Street, the rest of the neighbors have seen them three, maybe four times. There’s a BEWARE OF DOG sign thrown sloppily over the side of the fence, even though no one’s ever seen a dog, and a padlock the size of a fist hanging stoutly from their front door. They’re not friendly people. They might also be ghosts.

“They’re not ghosts, dumbass,” Deborah says, peeling a clementine over Tom’s counter. “If they were ghosts they wouldn’t be able to leave the house.”

“No one’s ever seen them come out of the house, though,” David says, with too much confidence, considering he barely ever leaves his house, so there’s a low chance he’d ever see anyone else do it. 

Tom shakes his head, and reaches over to steal one of Deborah’s clementine slices. “My mom has,” he says. “She’s seen one of them at the grocery store, the taller one. She says she’s pretty. And young, I guess.”

Frowning, Deborah slaps Tom’s wrist when he reaches for another clementine slice, and eats one herself. “How young?”

He shrugs. “She said, like, mid-twenties.”

“Old enough to be a serial killer,” David says, helpfully.

Deborah rolls her eyes. “There’s no age limitations to being a serial killer, dumbo. Didn’t you watch that Dateline thing I sent you about the Connecticut murders?”

This time Tom holds his hand out politely for a clementine slice, and Deborah sighs and drops one in his hand. “Thanks. Anyway, I don’t think they’re serial killers, but there is something seriously sketch about them. Like, do they have jobs? Do they actually have a dog? Is the pretty blonde one kidnapped by the other-”

“The other one’s like, younger than her,” David says. “I think, anyway. And shorter.”

“What the fuck is up with your logic today, that doesn’t mean she isn’t a kidnapper, or a serial killer-”

“Well,” Tom says, giving up on soliciting and heading over to the cabinet to get a clementine for himself. “I guess the only way to know is to ask.”

They both look at him like he’s nuts, which in his opinion is a victory over the bickering. “Ask?” David repeats.

Deborah shoves the last three slices of clementine in her mouth, chipmunk cheeks making her look even more incredulous. “Dude, whether or not they’re actually poltergeists or if the Beware of Dog dog is real, they really, really don’t seem inclined towards visitors.”

Instead of peeling off the rind with his thumbnail, Tom just splits the clementine down the middle with both hands. Juice goes running down his forearm, and he reaches down to lick it off. “You’re right, you’re right,” he says amicably. “So I guess we’re just gonna have to see for ourselves.”

\---

It works out, because this is the first year Tom’s mom is letting him go trick-or-treating without supervision. Deborah and David haven’t been watched over like babies since they were nine, and Tom’s pretty sure the only reason Mom is letting him get away with it is because Sarah has a party on Halloween she’s refusing to skip just to babysit her brother.

“Fourteen’s totally old enough to go out on Halloween by yourself, anyway, Mom,” Sarah says, tying a tiny apron over a pair of fishnets. “It’s stupid that you’ve made me go with him as long as you have, Tom’ll be fine.”

Tom’s wearing the same half-assed Batman costume he’s worn for the last three years. He’s tying the cape around his neck, giving Sarah a skeptical look. “What are you supposed to be?”

“The baker,” she says smartly, adjusting her small chef’s hat and smoothing her hands down her bodice. “Laura’s the butcher and Amy’s the candlestick maker.”

He makes a face at her. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“It’s not just supposed to be, it is,” she says. “Where are _your_ loser friends, anyway.”

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. Tom smirks at her, and heads over to the door. “Hey guys, what’s up.”

David is maybe Shaun of the Dead, and Deborah is definitely Sam from Danny Phantom. She wrinkles her nose when she sees him. “Batman. How original.”

He ignores her, turning instead to shout over his shoulder. “Mom, David and Deborah are here, I’m leaving!”

“Okay, sweetie!” Mom yells back. “Have fun, be safe, be back by 11!”

And he’s about to head out when two cold hands grab him by the shoulders from behind. “And remember to stay away from the Jensen house,” Sarah whispers in his ear, hot and grinning. “They’re liable to-” She leans down, and makes an exaggerated chomp by the side of his neck. “Take a bite right out of you.”

Shoving her off, he gives a halfhearted, “gross, grow up,” and slams the door shut. 

Deborah looks interestedly after her. “Huh,” she says. “We didn’t even consider the fact that they might be vampires.”

“The probability of that is so low,” David says. “If you still wanna talk statistics.”

“I am talking statistics, and if I’m right and they’re lesbians, the odds of them being vampires goes up by, like, two hundred percent.”

“God, Sarah was right, you guys are losers,” Tom says. “Come on, let’s go.”

They do hit some houses for trick-or-treating first, though, because their priorities aren’t totally out of order. 

\---

The entire time they’ve lived here, the Jensens have never, ever opened their door on Halloween. Tom doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone knock. When they circle around it, casually, slowly, all the lights are out.

“It’s only, like, nine,” David says. “Who goes to bed at nine unless you’re eighty?”

“Maybe they’re not here,” Tom says. 

“They _never leave the house_ ,” Deborah says, and she’s toying with the frayed edges of the holes in her jeans now. “Guys, I don’t know about this. What if the house is alarmed?”

“It is,” Tom says, reaching down to root in his candy bucket. “But they don’t turn it on all the time. Sarah tripped it one time when she threw a Frisbee through the window, but then last year Bobby Handle egged the house and nothing happened.”

 

David shifts from one foot to the other. “So what if it’s on?”

Tom rolls his eyes, finds what he’s looking for, and moves closer to the fence. “Then we run away. We all live down the street. Come on. Are you chicken?”

And he hops the fence. Nothing happens.

Reluctantly, Deborah and David start climbing over. As they do, Tom rubs his hand on his plastic armor, wets his lips, brings a dog whistle to his mouth, and blows.

There’s no sound, but Deborah immediately falls on her ass. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“There’s a fucking attack dog, du-” David starts, but before he can finish, the back screen door bangs open, and a tiny black blur comes rushing out, yipping gleefully and nearly braining itself on the fence before grinding to a stop in the dirt in front of Deborah.

It can’t be bigger than a cinderblock. When it dives into Deborah’s lap, barking and licking her face, she huffs in surprise, then giggles, wrapping her hands around both sides of it. “Hey there, buddy- hey! You sure don’t look like an attack dog.”

“That’s the attack dog?” David mutters.

“No, it’s a little sweetheart!” Deborah coos, in that soft high voice all girls seem to adopt around small living things with big heads. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you- oh, his collar says Nico. Aren’t you, Nico?”

Nico yaps happily, and licks her cheek again. She laughs, standing up with him and petting his back. “I love him. We should steal him.”

“No, no,” Tom says. “We’re only here to commit one felony, and that’s breaking and entering. And now it looks like we don’t even have to break.”

The back screen door is still knocking against itself in the wind. It’s basically all the way open. Deborah laughs, scratching Nico behind the ears. “Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she says. “Such a good, pretty, helpful boy, helping us commit less crime, yes you are.”

“David, take the dog, make sure it doesn’t get too loud,” Tom says. “Deborah, come with me inside.”

“What!” David says. Deborah stoutly refuses to hand Nico over. “Let Deborah stay outside with the dog, she’s the one that’s in love with it. I want to see the dead bodies.”

Patiently, Tom says, “Deborah’s the only one who knows how to use pepper spray, so she has to come inside. Wait a couple minutes and you can follow us, as long as you can make sure the dog stays outside.”

With some grumbling, Nico changes hands, and Deborah and Tom slip in through the still-banging screen door. The floorboards creak under them as they slide in, and Tom holds his breath.

There’s no bodies when they go in, which means the dining room at least is clear of murdery activities. There are no lights on, but orangey October moonlight illuminates a few things- some picture frames on the islet, the chandelier’s crystals, the plastic sheen of a bowl of fruit on the table. 

It’s disappointingly normal. 

Deborah’s looking at one of the picture frames. “This must be them and their friends,” she says. “I can’t tell which are them, but they’re all pretty.”

Tom doesn’t really care if they’re pretty. He goes to check the fridge for human remains. 

He’s grumbling over his lack of findings, and lack of anything interesting on the food front at all, moving towards the desk in the living room to investigate when Deborah, still at the islet, says in a funny voice, “Tom, there’s wedding pictures.”

“Hmm?” he says, distractedly, leafing through what looks like tax forms. He’s not good at math, but it looks like the Jensens have a lot of money and not a lot of good credit. 

“There’s _wedding pictures_ ,” she repeats, in a loud whisper. “Of them. They’re married.”

“Oh,” he says, and opens a new drawer.

There’s a quiet clatter, and suddenly Deborah’s standing next to him. “Hey, we should leave,” she says, and all of a sudden all the goofy Nico playfulness has gone out of her. “They’re just normal. We should get out of their house.”

Unfortunately, she says this just as Tom opens the bottom drawer, which is full of weapons.

“What the fuck!”

“Holy _shit_.”

They both crouch down at the same time, counting objects. There’s a rusty old crowbar, a couple of clean knives, some mace, and what looks like a prop dagger along with some nunchucks. Tom reaches down for the dagger, and a file goes sliding out from beneath it. 

Deborah immediately snatches it up, starts flipping through it. “Okay,” she mutters. “Okay. Okay. What the fuck.”

Tom leans over her shoulder, peering down with a can of mace still in one hand. “What is it?”

“It’s a serial killer case file,” she whispers, as soft as her voice will go. “Of the _Lakewood_ murders.”

Tom’s nose crinkles. “That weird one from-”

“The Connecticut one I told David about,” she whispers. “The masked killer one? God, it was so gnarly. This is, like- they just have the old files, though, from the murders in the eighties. The original ones.”

Tom shrugs with one shoulder. “Maybe they’re just weird murder freaks like y-”

There’s a rustle. 

They both go dead still. Tom clutches the mace harder. Just a hair louder than her serial-killer-case-file voice, Deborah whispers, “David?”

No answer. No Nico either. Slowly, they both rise to their feet.

“Take the crowbar,” Tom mutters. 

“What?”

He waves the mace at her impatiently. “I’m not fucking around! They have a stash of weapons on top of a serial killer file! Take the crowbar!”

Gingerly, she lifts it up, weighs it out. They creep, slowly, towards the door closest to them, away from the sound. 

Which takes them right into a bedroom.

A bedroom with people in it.

Deborah nearly screams, but Tom claps a hand over her mouth. They both stare at the bed, which is covered with a weird amount of blankets for a pretty warm October night, and contains two women, sound asleep at ten-fourteen on Halloween.

They’re pretty, for serial killers. Deborah had said so, but now it registers with Tom. They’re pretty, and close together, the blonde one’s hair fanning out over the darker one’s face. The darker one grumbles, and rolls over.

It only strikes Tom then that Deborah’s right. They really shouldn’t be here, weird murder cabinet or no weird murder cabinet. They’re just two sleeping chicks. 

On the crest of this thought, he leans backwards, towards the door again, and the floorboard creaks again.

But this time, the dark-haired women shoots up in bed, and there’s a gun in her hand pointed at him in less than a second.

Both of them scream and drop everything they’re holding. Tom puts his hands up in the air like they do in movies, and starts crying, which usually doesn’t happen in movies unless the character’s a pussy. Which, at this point, he’s fine with being an alive pussy. “Oh my god please don’t shoot oh my god!”

Deborah too has burst into tears, but hasn’t put her hands over her head. The woman eyes her carefully, then looks back at Tom, glaring. The gun doesn’t move off him. “Who the fuck are you.”

“I’m Tom Galley I live down the street please don’t shoot me oh my god!”

The blonde one stirs, rises slowly, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. She looks like a princess, or maybe a C-lister movie star. “Audrey, what- Jesus Christ.”

“He says they’re kids from down the street,” the one called Audrey says, without looking away from Tom or lowering the gun. “I woke up and they were there.”

After giving them a long, unreadable once-over, the blonde sighs, and scooches up the bed a little to face Audrey. “Were you keeping a gun under the pillow again? You know I hate that.”

Looking a little defensive, Audrey lowers the gun, just slightly. Deborah quivers. “The safety was on.”

The blonde raises her eyebrows. “Have there been times where you kept a gun in our bed with the safety _off_?”

Apparently hoping to sway this conversation back in their direction before they die, Deborah mutters, “Please let us go, we’ll never come back, please, please-”

“Hey, shut up,” Audrey says, turning her attention back onto them, which in Tom’s opinion is the exact opposite of what they wanted. “When I was your age I stabbed someone in a movie theatre. And I’ve only gotten worse since then, so.”

“ _Audrey_ ,” the blonde says, admonishing, then, to Deborah and Tom, “Sorry. She has trauma.” She slides a bit out of the sheets, to sit on her knees on top of the covers. “I’m Emma. Who are you?”

Deborah talks again, which is good because the longer Tom is faced down with the gun the higher the chances are if he talks he’ll shit himself. “I’m. Um. I’m D-Deborah and this is Tom. We really do live down the street, we really, really didn’t mean to bother you, p-please let us go.”

Emma looks over at Audrey, who seems to mull it over for a second, then shakes her head. “Not till you tell us where the fuck our dog is, slick.”

And up until that moment, Emma had seemed half-awake, serene even, but then she snaps so fast into waking that Tom nearly trips right in the direction of the gun. “Where the _fuck_ is our dog?”

They both throw their hands back up in the air, and Deborah starts crying again. “He’s outside-” she sobs, just as Tom shouts, “It’s outside, we left it outside, I swear to God!”

The women look at each other, then Emma sighs, runs her hand back through her hair. Audrey stops looking at Tom, for a moment, just to watch her move. “Put the gun down, Audrey.”

Slowly, and apparently irritated, Audrey does. She lays it in her lap, which makes her look sort of goofy but also sort of like a mob boss. Without it in her hand, Tom notices that she’s actually kind of small. 

Emma says, “Why are you in our house? Are you drunk?”

“N-” Tom starts, but Deborah cuts across him. “Yes! Yes, God, we were so drunk, I thought- I thought this was my house.”

Which, after a second of reflection, Tom agrees is a better excuse than ‘we thought you were serial killers so we decided to break in.’ He nods, hurriedly, but nobody looks at him.

“God,” Audrey mutters. “I hate Halloween. And kids. Let’s never have kids.”

“We’re never going to have kids,” Emma says patiently. “You barely feed Nico.” Then, to Deborah, “Can I have your parents’ number? I want you kids to get picked up.”

They both go extraordinarily pale. 

\---

Turns out David had ditched when he heard them start screaming, so only Deborah and Tom’s parents get the, “hi, this is Emma Jensen, happy Halloween, my wife is holding your kids at gunpoint so please come pick them up,” phone call. It’s bad. There’s a lot of shouting on the other end. 

Neither of their parents talk to the Jensens when they come to get Deborah and Tom. Actually, they come to the door at exactly the same time, snatch both their kids out as Nico runs past their ankles back into the house, and slam the door shut without saying a word to either woman, instead muttering about _how_ goddamn grounded they’re going to be.

Deborah looks sidewise at Tom in the back of her mom’s pickup truck. “I about peed myself,” she says. 

“Me too,” Tom says. 

“Why was she keeping a _gun_ under her _pillowcase_?” Deborah says, but then her mom drives away so Tom figures they’ll never know.

\---

Nico won’t shut the fuck up when they get him back inside, even when Emma gives him a warm bath in the sink and rubs him behind the ears and tells him we all make mistakes and he’s still the best guard dog in the world. Audrey eventually bites the bullet and just starts making coffee. 

“Stop that, let me do it,” Emma says when she sees Audrey getting the beans out of the coffee cabinet, “you always make it wrong, hold Nico,” and dumps the soaking wet dog in Audrey’s arms. Audrey scowls, but does as she’s told, even when Nico starts yapping next to her ear and licks her cheek up and down.

She just watches Emma move around, adjusting the heat of the stovetop and getting the kettle on, before saying, “You really think they were just drunk shitty kids?”

“Don’t even start, I’m still mad at you for keeping a gun in the bed,” Emma says, but she isn’t mad. She isn’t even tired. There’s this hyperawareness to her that always comes when anything, anything is out of place, when something non-suburbanite happens to them. That’s why she’s making the coffee. It’s why Audrey turned the stovetop on in the first place; Emma likes to have things to do with her hands.

She goes to lean against the sink, Nico still squirming in her arms. “You’re the one that promised me this was the quietest neighborhood in our price range. So really this is an equal opportunity spat.”

“I refuse to have a spat with you,” Emma says, retrieving the sugar from the top shelf. “And having two kids wander around the house because we have a dumb dog isn’t the worst thing that can happen.”

Nico whines, and Audrey scratches him behind the ears. Emma moans, and crouches down in front of him. “Oh no, baby, when I said dumb I meant quiet. You know, like, mute, because you are very well behaved! Yes you are.”

She kisses him on the nose, which quiets him down, and then does the same to Audrey, which just makes her face crinkle up. “Don’t try to dog-placate me, it’s not gonna work on me. You told the kids, I’m traumatized.”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Emma says, and pours into Audrey’s mug, black with two sugar packets. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Audrey says, and puts Nico on the floor to take it from her. He yips, shakes off the rest of the water, and runs off. “Hey, I have an idea. How about from now on, Halloweens we go to the Caribbean or something. Have the government pay for it.”

Taking a sip of her own coffee, Emma hums thoughtfully. “Hmm. I actually like that idea. Somewhere, uh, not super remote though. Maybe Italy or something.”

Audrey shrugs, and takes a swig from her mug. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

That makes Emma hum again, but this time she’s smiling. She takes a bigger sip of coffee, then puts it down on the counter. “I’m really tired. Can we just go back to bed?”

“You’re a freak,” Audrey says, but she puts her cup down too. “Sure. I’ll just spoon you while the caffeine courses through my blood for the next two hours.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You’re short, it’ll only take like an hour,” she says, and she reaches one hand out, fingers spread and wanting.

Audrey doesn’t bother making a show of hesitating. She just takes it, curling their fingers together. “I’m gonna have to put the gun away though.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Hey.”

“What?”

“... hey.”

“What- oh my god, stop! _Stop_! I swear, if you-”

“It’s the caffeine, you crazy person. I’m all whacked up now.”

“Oh, never heard that excuse before- Nico, come here, boy! Come here! Guess who gets to sleep with their moms tonight because Audrey doesn’t know not to keep deadly weapons in bed!”

\---

Next year, the Jensen house actually is empty on Halloween, but after the entire Buckline community hears about Audrey Jensen pulling a gun on a fourteen year old, it goes unperturbed.

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a self-indulgent domesticity fic after all the rambling phoebe and I have done over the last few days- hope you enjoyed!


End file.
